blooms of innocence

warnings: drug abuse

this is one of my first stories and so I'm experimenting (and being honest, I don't even think I've understood the prompt properly hehe)

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Birdie smelt of pomegranates. 

April always knew when her best friend entered the room because the sweet aroma would gently glide in and mix softly with the air just before she made herself visible. It was rather odd, considering that Birdie always stated that she never, ever used any products which had that specific scent and yet, the strong smell of pomegranates clung to her sun-kissed skin. That was Birdie for you, smelling of ripe fruit and drawing anything with a heartbeat towards her while her attention bounces from projects to people to books and then to phases, many, many phases that were either harmless interests like when she decided to join chess club or developing into more menacing ideas, like when she introduced drugs to her best-friend.

April can remember her first meeting with the tainted ruby flower.

“Look what I got!” Birdie exclaims as she bounds into the bedroom. Her eyes sparkle widely as she waves her closed fist in the air in front of April who was reclined in her bed. The girl was attempting to read underneath her large window but her thoughts kept straying into wisps, escaping from the pages and disappearing far, far away.

“What?” she answers without bothering to look up. A thump on her leg raises grey-blue eyes in slight annoyance.

There, in Birdie’s dainty hand, lay a small brown package. The paper still retained its slight sheen despite the creases crawling all over it. It looked like a parcel and April feels her curiosity stir.

“What is it?” she repeats and sits up in her single bed. The evening sun was lazily setting and golden glows were being cast throughout the room. A ray lands across Birdie’s face and makes swirling brown eyes glitter and sparkle.

“It's a flower.”

April’s brow crinkles because there is no way anything living is being held in her palm. The other girl giggles and scrambles to sit amongst the blankets that are covered in daisy petals. April loves daises. Everything in her life is daisy themed, with daisy lamps and daisy rugs, to daisy pens and daisy printed skirts hung carefully in her cupboard.

Birdie’s deft fingers unwind the package to present two neat little cigarettes. They’re a dirty white, little shavings of tobacco sprinkling onto the paper and April wrinkles her nose in slight disgust. She never liked smoking.

Birdie was practically quivering in excitement.

“It's mixed with morphine, you know, heroin,” and she whispers the last word as if it were something magical, something that should be treated with reverence. 

April’s eyes widen and she recoils in horror. Frankly, she's scandalised at the very thought at how Birdie could bring something so… disgraced into their lives.

“We'll only do it once 'Ril because why not? And we’re young, we’re supposed to do this,”

April would like to point out in fact that is it not what they’re supposed to do but as usual, a force takes over and her words dry up like parched seeds in her throat. Birdie always had a strong hold on her. A certain power to get April to do anything she wants to do, and so the girl she finds her long fingers reaching for a cigarette. 

It seems to tremble in her grasp. The sunset was now glazing butter-gold tones across the sunflowers lined on her window sill and for a moment, she wishes she could transform into the amber plant. Unaware and undemanding, it’s only job to turn towards the sun and sway in the melody that sweet bliss provides.

The pair smoke the cigarettes night. Birdie is in a delighted mood whilst April is somewhat horrified at the paranoia and side effects it caused both her mind and body to experience. In the morning, with the pungent taste of sick in her mouth, April explicitly makes her animosity clear and although quite clearly disappointed, Birdie does not pursue the subject any further.

But a couple years later when they’re both in university, all bright eyed and filled without a single ounce of sensibility, Birdie once more approaches April with a little dose of the opium drug.

“I have it again by the way, the morphine I mean, but it’s in an injection form this time and not cigarettes,” Birdie mentions one evening. It’s the beginning of August and the day was a hot, sticky mess with insects that have no regard for any personal space and families with their children sticky with ice cream running around. The best friends are on a hill, a blanket that's patterned in daisies underneath them. April has brought pomegranates with her; Birdie has brought the wine.

April is silent for a few minutes. Instead, she watches the summer sun set. It was casting fiery red across the city landscape and for a moment, the air seems to be alight in furious fire.

To be honest, she was scared this would happen. That in fact it wasn't a phase and Birdie would become overwhelmed by the opioid. Yet a strange urge is clawing inside of her, begging to be released and grab ahold of the heroin in the canvas bag Birdie bought with her.

“I’d like to try it,” she admits after a couple minutes of silence. Birdie startles, for she had thought the other girl had ignored her comment and her attempt to hide her surprise doesn't go with much success.

“Really? Are you serious? I thought you were too frigid to do it again,”

She feels April bristle beside her, “I’m not frigid you idiot and anyway, that’s not the correct word,” she snaps before sighing.

“It’s just, even if the first time was a disaster I’d still like to try it again,” she explains and her eyes are shining with an emotion Birdie can't quite figure out. She can't say she's not surprised at the change of heart but the young woman doesn't require much persuasion.

“Well okay, together then yeah,” and excitement seeps into her tone as she scrambles towards her backpack that is fraying colourful thread at every corner. She turns back towards to her friend and studies her subtly. 

April did seem to be different after her second year. When before they told each other everything, her friend was now not so quick to pour out her soul. Of course Birdie was upset for a while but she had accepted that they were growing older and there were things she couldn’t control. So with the honey-toned hues fluttering before them and the air sweet with pomegranates, crimson poppies swoop and dive into their blood stream.

On that hill, April feels a strange harmony take ahold of her.

The last days of summer still hold onto crystal blue skies and warm temperatures. In less than two months, both girls had overcome drastic changes. Birdie had become more grown up. Not that she was any less reckless and her attention still fizzed all over the place, but she was more prone to listen to the voice of reason and in her view, that meant being grown up.

April was making a small profit of selling daisy themed jewellery. Her aunt allowed her to set up a small studio in the corner of her flower shop and she'd spend endless hours hunched in the corner making her golden jewellery, hidden amongst roses and carnations while violets and magnolias kept her company.

It's that flower shop where the pair are sitting on wooden stools in the back after coming down from another high.

April is watching the street outside the clear window before turning her attention onto her best-friend.

“Whose your supplier?”

“Why’d you want to know?” Birdie returns sharply.

She shrugs, “I don’t want you paying for it constantly."

They’d only done it less than 10 times and Birdie didn’t mind.

“But I do, oh come on don’t be so secretive,”

And so reluctantly Birdie hands the number over, the reasons on why she's so hesitant are reasons she can't quite provide. Birdie doesn't hear from April after that day. She still goes round to her house and the flower shop every week, knocking on the doors and calling her phone, desperate for a response.

There's no answer.

April doesn't leave her mind but she's pushed to the side, becomes a lingering thought as Birdie's life begins to fill up with blooming new friendships and the shining success of her excelling at her degree. She stops knocking on wooden doors. She stops calling her. Instead she continues with her own life, yet the love she holds for April doesn't diminish a fraction. It's only once she notices that daisies are decorating lifeless grass on the side of the street on a cold November day that she turns her path towards April's flower shop.

Birdie finds her best-friend on the oak panelled floor with a needle lying next to glassy eyes that are staring unseeing at the ceiling. She blinks for a moment before bending over and vomititng all over her expensive shoes. Ironically, it lands on bright red poppy petals. They lay amongst smashed ceramics and the soil bleeds amongst flaming flowers as Birdie's heart is shattered into fragments of piercing glass.

April always said Birdie smelt like pomegranates.

Now, she eats the red fruit by herself. She bring it every week and leave a portion for April above her head even if she cannot smell nor taste them. Instead, Birdie plants daisies round April's grave.